


Cigarette

by sister_wolf



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-03
Updated: 2003-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_wolf/pseuds/sister_wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sing something, fucker."  Joe paced restlessly at the end of the bed, swinging a bottle of whiskey in one hand.  Billy really didn't want to know where the bottle had come from, since Joe couldn't actually move anything in the real world.  Maybe they had Jack Daniels in hell.  It'd figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cigarette

"Sing something."

"What?" Billy was stretched out on the bed reading, with a pile of pillows propping up his head. He looked over the top of his book and scowled at Joe.

"Sing something, fucker." Joe paced restlessly at the end of the bed, swinging a bottle of whiskey in one hand. Billy really didn't want to know where the bottle had come from, since Joe couldn't actually move anything in the real world. Maybe they had Jack Daniels in hell. It'd figure.

"You want some music, turn on the fucking CD player yourself." Billy found his place on the page again, ignoring Joe.

"Asshole. Even if I could turn it on, it wouldn't do me any fucking good."

"What are you talking about?" Billy dropped the book onto the bed with an aggrieved sigh.

"I can't hear anything that isn't live." Joe lit a cigarette. The bottle of whiskey was nowhere to be seen. "No radio, no television, no fucking CD player. It's just-- not there. All I hear is static."

"That sucks. No Ramones?" Joe's smoking was making Billy crave a cigarette. He'd quit two months ago. Then six weeks ago, again, and several times since then.

"No Ramones, no Clash, no fucking Sex Pistols. I'm in hell. At least there isn't any Muzak." Joe grimaced and spat.

"Your own fucking fault, Joseph." Billy looked longingly at the suitcase where he knew he'd hidden a pack the last time he quit.

"Yeah, yeah, I heard it all before, Billiam. Guilt-tripping motherfucker." Joe fiddled with his baseball cap.

"And you're a stupid sonofabitch. Blow your fucking head off on tape. What, you wanted to be remembered forever in the annals of punk history? Dink." Giving in, Billy grabbed the pack of cigarettes from his suitcase and lit one. Closing his eyes, he drew in the smoke with a feeling of almost sexual pleasure.

"Whatever. God, I'd fucking kill for a smoke."

Billy made an intensely annoying buzzer noise. "Too late, you already did."

"Fuckhead." Joe smiled reluctantly. "You're a funny motherfucker, Billy. You should take your comedy show on the road. Oh, too late, you already did."

"Fuck off." Billy blew smoke in Joe's general direction.

Joe's eyes widened. "Fuck, do that again. I could almost smell it."

"You're delusional." Billy took a nice long drag and blew the smoke in Joe's face.

Joe closed his eyes and smiled blissfully. "I can smell it. Fuck, you have any idea how bad I've been jonesing for a real cigarette?"

"But I see you smoking all the time," Billy objected.

"Ain't the same, Billiam. No taste, no smell, just-- habit." Joe shrugged. "Ain't real. But this-- that a full pack?"

"Yeah. I quit, remember?" He sat down on the bed, leaning back against the pillows.

"Pansy-ass tofu-eating LA rock star motherfucker." Joe laid down on the bed next to him, but the mattress didn't shift, breaking the illusion that he was still real. "Blow that shit my way. Don't suppose you'd smoke some dope for me, would ya?"

"Joe, you're an asshole."

"That's not buddies."

"Dink." Billy shifted partly onto his side, facing Joe. Even at this close a distance, Joe still looked real. As long as he didn't try to touch him, he could almost believe Joe was really there.

Fuck, he missed Joe.

"So sing something. You can sing and smoke at the same time, don't try to tell me you can't."

"Yes, master. Anything else you'd like, master?"

"That's more like it." Joe shifted closer on the bed, only a hand's width of distance between their faces.

"Freak."

"C'mon, I'm waiting."

"Fine." Billy took a deep drag and began, "No one knows what it's like/ to be the bad man/ to be the sad man/ behind blue eyes."

"Are you singing The Who to me?" Joe demanded, glaring.

"Yep."

"You psychotic fuck."

"Hey, you don't like it, I can stop singing."

"Bastard. You couldn't sing me some Clash? Come on, try London Calling, I know you can do it." Joe sighed long-sufferingly. "Fine, go on. I always knew you wanted to be Roger Daltrey."

"That make you Keith Moon?" Billy asked, snickering. "Dink. Shut up and I'll sing something."

Taking a deep breath, he began again, "Smoked my last cigarette/ sat in bed for a while/ thought of your face and that brought me a smile/ Wanted another one/ fell back asleep instead/ woke and found you sitting there on the bed."

"You sentimental motherfucker." Joe glared at him for a moment, then reached out an insubstantial hand and traced it over the side of Billy's face. Billy closed his eyes and swallowed hard, feeling the cold almost-touch, like a feather traced over his skin very lightly. Very quietly, Joe muttered, "I missed you. When you were gone."

"Me too," Billy whispered, his voice a little unsteady.

"I wish--" Joe broke off. "Doesn't matter."

"Me too."

Silently, Billy lit another cigarette. Joe leaned in, his mouth a bare centimeter from Billy's, and took in the smoke as Billy breathed it out.

"You know I--" Joe stopped, grimaced, and waved his hand around.

Smiling a little, Billy said, "Yeah. Me too."


End file.
